


It's a horrible life, indeed.

by sxkii



Series: Letters [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Kinda, Language, sad greg oh no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 02:39:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3879013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxkii/pseuds/sxkii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>God why the fuck am I crying? He thought to himself, running a hand over his face. In that moment, Greg realized how much Sherlock actually meant to him, no matter how much of an asshole he could really be. Greg had known Sherlock from the time he was an innocent little 13-year-old. He was just starting out. And it all to lead up to this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a horrible life, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Second chapter of "Letters", like people have asked for :) ! Hope you like it! ♥  
> Comments and tips are appreciated.

Beeping. _Constant_ beeping. Disinfectant. PA system.

Morgue? _No_ , there’s monitors.

Needles. Thoughts. Bathroom, bathtub.. Lestrade. God, what the hell happened?

 

“..and Jesus Christ, Sherlock, why would you try and kill yourself?” _John._ Nononono, John’s dead. _Am I dead?_

Sherlock grunted slightly, trying to lift his body into an upright position, which failed horrendously. He couldn’t see, but he could feel the pull of wires and hands pushing him back down. _Hands.. John’s hands._

Everything was muffled and blurry. Noise, too much noise. Beeping. God stop the fucking beeping already.

Sherlock finally was able to see clearly. John to his right, Lestrade on his left, and a nurse standing in the back. Lestrade, brows furrowed, was.. concerned, but had a slight smile lingering along the corner of his mouth. Sherlock glanced to his right. John.

“J-John..?” Sherlock breathed out; his throat was rough and scratchy from the comatose, and supposed breathing tube, Sherlock assumed. Sherlock couldn’t remember if he injured himself, but at that point he didn’t really care, all he cared about was making sure John was really there. He gripped John’s arms tightly and pulled him closer to himself. Sherlock sobbed mindlessly into John’s uniform. Uniform. He didn’t have time to change.

“It’s alright. I’m alright, you’re alright. We’re both okay.” John’s voice was smooth, sad, unsure. Sherlock continued to sob quietly,

“I’m so sorry, John. I-“ He had wrapped his hands around John’s back, tugging slightly on his uniform.

“Shhh, Sherlock, just rest.” John interrupted, slowly backing out of Sherlock’s grip. He needed to know the full reason of Sherlock’s almost-successful-overdose. He only got what he could gather from Lestrade on the way; John actually thought Sherlock was dead when he was informed of the.. “incident”. He had gotten leave for ‘death or injury in the family’ and, with Mycroft’s control, was able to get on an overnight plane ride over to see Sherlock. Having a brother-in-law that was one of the most powerful people in the British government really did help in situations like this.

Sherlock nodded slightly, still holding onto John’s hand gently. Greg motioned his head for the door, as if to say “let’s talk outside”. John agreed, and once he was sure Sherlock was back into, at least, a light sleep, he carefully stood and left the room with Greg.

“Greg.. God, mate, what the hell happened?” John asked, rubbing his forehead and sighing.

“Well, I had a case that was too hard for Scotland Yard to figure out, which doesn’t take much, but anyway; I had went to 221b because Sherlock wasn’t answering my calls. I figured he was playing his violin too loud, or just wasn’t answering out of ignorance. When I got to the flat, there was a pile of mail on the front step, which was rather odd I thought, and when I quickly went through them, I noticed there were a few letters from you, two of them asking why he wasn’t writing back. I went to knock his door down although it was unlocked, which was, again, very odd. When I went upstairs.. that’s when I saw him. In the bathtub.”

John winced at the thought, holding his head down. Greg tried to comfort him, placing his hand on his shoulder, “I’m sorry, mate. But he’s fine now. He’ll be able to go home in a day or two; at least once he’s completely stable. Mycroft made sure he won’t be checked into the psychward.” John nodded and saw Sherlock stirring, and raced back into the room, sitting down in the chair and holding onto Sherlock’s hand, like he had never left. Greg sighed lowly and let them be alone, walking out of the hospital and back to Scotland Yard.

 

Once Greg was outside and in his car, alone, he started to cry. It wasn’t a sob, it wasn’t just a few tears, it was an actual cry. He kept his emotions in for everyone around him, but when he was alone, he was allowed to cry all he wanted. Tears slowly fell from his face and onto his suit as he lied his head against the steering wheel. Greg never did cry, maybe once a few times at funerals, but never over someone like Sherlock. _God why the fuck am I crying?_ He thought to himself, running a hand over his face. In that moment, Greg realized how much Sherlock actually meant to him, no matter how much of an asshole he could really be. Greg had known Sherlock from the time he was an innocent little 13-year-old. He was just starting out. And it all to lead up to this? Bullshit.

Greg finished crying and collected his emotions, driving out of the parking garage and back to Scotland Yard. Although, little did Greg know, someone was watching him the entire time.

Mycroft glanced down as Greg left and twirled his umbrella along the concrete ground, sighing to himself. He wasn't as emotional as Greg was, at least not then, but that time would come soon enough. For now, a small tear trickled down Mycroft's cheek and landed on the ground below him.


End file.
